The shadows obeyed his call before he could even command them. They rose like tendrils of living smoke, curling around his wrists, his shoulders, until they coalesced into the shape of a sleek black wolf at his side. It growled softly, its amber eyes gleaming as Nyx stepped forward, his boots crunching against the frost-laden grass of the Night Court’s training grounds. The crisp morning air carried the scent of pine and cold starlight, but it did nothing to dull the thrum of magic beneath his skin—alive, eager, waiting.

“Again,” he commanded, rolling his shoulders. The sparring ring before him shimmered with remnants of his last attempt—starlight flickering faintly in the frost, mixing with the shifting darkness still curling at his fingertips.

"I’m not sure what’s more stubborn,” Cassian, Nyx’s uncle, drawled from the sidelines, arms crossed, his wings flaring slightly with amusement, “you or the laws of physics.”

Nyx huffed a laugh, shaking out his hands as the last of his summoned power pulsed through his veins, not waning, but pressing, demanding more. “Guess you’ll just have to stick around and find out.”

Cassian snorted, shaking his head, but said nothing more. Nyx took that as a victory.

The shadow wolf at his side tensed, muscles coiling as if it could sense his intent before he even moved. Then, in a single bound, it lunged toward the sparring dummy. Mid-stride, its form unraveled, twisting like a wisp of ink in water before solidifying once more—a dagger, sleek and deadly, slicing clean through the wooden chest with a satisfying crack.

Nyx flicked his wrist, dissolving the construct back into swirling mist. His magic hummed in response, a restless energy crackling at his fingertips, unwilling to settle. He could keep going. He wanted to keep going.

But even as he stepped forward, the air behind him shifted.

A presence. Silent, but unmistakable.

Not Cassian. Not Azriel, who had been watching from the shadows before their session even began. This was different.

Nyx straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as if unfazed, but the shadows curled instinctively at his call, responding to the quiet, electric pull of his instincts. His power didn’t recognize the presence as a threat—but that didn’t mean he was about to let his guard down.

"You know," he said casually, turning just enough to catch the figure in his periphery, "if you're trying to be subtle, you're doing a piss-poor job of it."